Until the Ice Melts
by Flaignhan
Summary: It's all his fault.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **So I swapped fic 99 for fic 101 because this one was calling my name a bit more. It's a two shot. Next part posted hopefully by the weekend. This is the result of a prompt from MorbidByDefault, so credit for the idea goes to her. =]

* * *

**Until the Ice Melts**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

It's so early, it's still dark. This is the one thing Molly hates about winter - arriving at work in the dark, and leaving in the dark. It's one of the many things she hates about being called in at four o'clock in the morning. Pitch black, no tube, and the buses only run every half an hour.

It's freezing, so she wraps up with layers and a chunky scarf wound round her neck. Her mittens aren't doing a very good job of keeping her fingers warm, but it's not until she slips, launching herself backwards but managing to save herself by throwing an arm around the nearest lamppost, that she decides to hail a cab.

The journey takes less than five minutes, even with the poor weather. They drive past a gritter, and the cab is showered with lumps of salt. The noise causes Molly to jump, and she vows to make a strong coffee before she even considers indulging any of Sherlock's whims. Although, she has already indulged one, in that she's arriving at work at four o'clock in the morning when she only left six hours ago. She thinks vaguely that there are laws about that sort of thing...but Sherlock won't work with anyone else. Or rather, no one else will work with Sherlock.

She hands the cab driver a tenner and only receives a couple of pound coins in return. She's about to say something then realises that it's not worth it. Four o'clock in the morning, icy, of course he's going to exploit her. She pushes open the door and steps out onto the pavement, gripping onto the handle until she's sure she's not going to fall straight onto her arse.

As the cab drives off, she takes small steps, keeping her feet flat in order to retain what little grip she can. Her phone dings, alerting her to a text, and with a sigh, she pulls it from her pocket.

_I've made coffee. Hurry up. _

_SH_

Well, he's gone some way to redeeming himself, she thinks. She starts to slowly climb the stairs, replying with a quick _I'm here, _but as she presses send, in her lack of concentration she doesn't notice that the next step up has a thin, almost imperceptible layer of ice.

As she lays on her back, staring up at the pitch black sky, she manages to look on the bright side. Of all the places she could have fallen, this is perhaps the most practical. The less optimistic side of her prods her brain, reminding her that were it not for Sherlock, she would be tucked up in bed having sweet dreams right now.

Her phone is still in her hand, and so she types another text, trying to block out the pain signals attacking her brain.

_Help_.

* * *

The text lands on his phone seconds after the other one. He takes a sip of his coffee, grimaces, and looks down at his phone to read it. There is no logical reason why she would text him if she were already in the building. He knows it is Molly, not just because of the ringtone (a mildly irritating ascending bleep that he refuses to change) but also because there is no one else who would text him at this time in the morning.

The first he knows of his dropped coffee is John's loud "_Jesus!_", and then he tears his eyes away from the screen of his phone to look down at the smashed mug on the laboratory floor. Without a word of explanation, he launches himself towards the door, wrenches it open, and sprints down the corridor. He cannot wait for the lift, will not stand around, even if it comes straight away, so he climbs the stairs, two at a time, until he reaches the ground floor. The receptionist gives him a stern look as he breaks the tranquillity of the early hours with the slap of his shoes on the floor tiles, but he barely notices her. He forces himself forward to the glass door and pushes it open. He slips on the ice, but manages to grab the rail in time to keep him from tumbling down the steps.

It is at this moment he realises exactly what has happened to Molly.

From the pavement, she looks up at him, sprawled over the steps, and smiles. "Hi."

"You idiot," he says hotly. "I thought something bad had happened."

She frowns. "Fractured tibia," she tells him. "Possible concussion. Thought it best to stay here."

"What's going on?"

John has finally caught up, and, it seems, is the only one to remember that the Bart's stairs are notorious for their ability to retain ice. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Sherlock says, pulling himself to his feet.

"Not _you_," John replies impatiently. He carefully negotiates his way down the stairs and helps Molly into a sitting position. "Can you stand?"

Molly shrugs, and takes John's hand. He pulls her up, frowning at the top of her head.

"That needs checking out," he says sternly.

"Yes yes," Sherlock says, "Come on." He moves down the steps, keeping one hand tightly wrapped around the rail. With his free hand he takes Molly by the elbow, and between him and John, they manage to get her up the stairs and into the hospital without any further injury. Sherlock's heart is still racing in his chest, an after effect of his potentially record-breaking sprint to the hospital entrance and the jolt that he felt when he slipped. Feelings may not be Sherlock's strong point, but he admits that even he cannot block out the sudden and fearful (and quite illogical) anticipation of death when ice denies him of sure footing.

They're moving far too slowly, and Molly's constant wincing is irritating him. With no warning, he picks her up, ignoring John's protests and Molly's shriek, and strides towards the lifts. John catches up and pushes the button, the metal doors sliding apart almost instantly.

"Basem-" Sherlock begins, but then he looks down at Molly, her shaking hand held over her eyes. Her skin is drained of colour, and she is freezing cold. "What's the matter?"

"I feel dizzy," she mumbles.

Sherlock bites back a sigh, and looks at John, whose finger is still hovering over the B button on the control panel. "Third floor," he tells him, and John pushes the button, the lift doors sliding shut.

* * *

Sherlock is barking orders. It's not doing much to help Molly's headache, but it _is_ getting things done. She has acquired a rather fetching blue boot.

"They tell me it's Molly-proof," Sherlock says to her quietly. She smiles, but jumps when he starts yelling about painkillers and head scans.

After another half an hour of Sherlock making sure she gets exactly what she needs, (not for her benefit, she knows, but to satisfy John's moral principles before he puts her to work - she knows it is coming, and she finds she doesn't mind) Molly is finally given the all clear and a pair of shiny crutches that are set far too high for her. In blur of clicks, Sherlock has adjusted them, and thrusts them towards her.

"Okay?" he asks. Molly nods. "Right, let's go then."

The journey to the lab is slow. Her head is still a little all over the place, and Sherlock ends up losing patience and tells her and John that he'll meet them down there. Walking with John is far less stressful. He takes slow steps, stays by her side, and doesn't continually talk at a million miles an hour. The peace is nice. The peace is what she needs, and gradually, things fall back into place in her head, and she gets used to the crutches.

"I really think you should go home," John tells her. "Rest that leg. Don't feel obliged to do anything for him. He can do these tests on his own."

"Well he's obviously got a lot on," Molly says, "he wouldn't have called me in otherwise."

John's eyebrows raise, just a touch, but Molly doesn't miss it.

"What?"

"He'd kill me if I told you."

"I'll tell him you told me if you _don't_ tell me."

John laughs. "But you won't be able to tell him what I told you. He'd never believe you."

"Okay," Molly says brightly. "If that's what you think."

John frowns. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" Molly asks. The lift doors open and she takes a careful step into the corridor beyond.

* * *

He's pacing, striding the length of the lab and turning swiftly on his heel and striding back again. He knows he must be patient. Molly is hurt, it's partly his fault (not all, as John has repeated to him several times over the past hour, _partly_) and so he must be patient. He must not rush her because technically, she shouldn't be working if she's had a head injury. And she should have at least a week off to rest her leg. She hasn't brought this up and so neither has he. John has tried to mention it, but Sherlock had cut him off with, "Yes, what a _brilliant_ idea, sending her out on the ice with _crutches_ this time. She's here now, and it's safer for her to stay until the ice melts, and if she's here, then she might as well _help_."

His coffee has been cleaned up, but Molly's mug, with its ditsy print porcelain, is now stone cold. He tips the coffee down the sink and ventures off to the staffroom to make another. By the time he has returned, Molly is perched on a stool reading Sherlock's notes, her hair still damp from her time on the pavement. There are dark circles under her eyes, and for a moment, there is a twinge of something in his chest, heightened by the way John is looking at him, his arms folded, his mouth set into a grim line.

Sherlock sets the coffee down in front of Molly and takes a sip of his own. Bitterness floods his mouth and he swallows it down, his lips pursing with the sharp taste.

"Oh by the way," Molly says, looking up from the file. "John mentioned to me that...well, it's fine. Don't worry about it."

"_What_?"

He looks up at John, whose arms are now held in front of him, his hands held up in a defensive gesture. "Sherlock, I didn't I swear, I -"

"It's fine," Molly says, and Sherlock looks back down at her, her wide eyes boring into his own. "Really, don't worry about it."

His jaw locks; he has nothing to say. He feels the heat of embarrassment rise up his body, and he does the only thing he can think to do.

He storms out of the lab.

* * *

Molly turns to stare at John. She had never expected this. Her skin prickles with shock and shame. Had she _hurt_ Sherlock? She had thought it would be a laugh, something silly to make her feel better after her fall. She doesn't feel better at all, however. She feels _worse. _

"What the hell was _that_ about?" she asks John in a soft whisper. To her surprise, John is smirking like a schoolboy being told off by a particularly humourless teacher.

"I didn't realise he was that uptight about it. It's nothing really," he says, hands in his pockets, lips still twisted into a smile.

"So tell me what it was then!" she says exasperatedly. "You don't think I've upset him, do you?" It seems a stupid question to ask. She has grown quite used to his tantrums over the years, but never, ever, has he left without having the last word. It's just not his style.

"I think his pride is a bit wounded," John replies, and Molly, in her impatience, wants to wipe the smile off his face. "But I wouldn't worry about it if I were you."

"What did he tell you?" Molly presses, her coffee getting colder by the second. She wants to drink it, because on the rare occasion that he does make her coffee, he makes it just right - better even than she can ever be bothered to make it. She refuses to drink it until she knows what's wrong with him though. It doesn't feel right.

"I asked why he couldn't do the tests himself," John says with a sigh, rubbing his brow. He looks tired, and Molly wonders whether Sherlock is flagging too.

"I didn't think it was right, calling you back in so soon; tried to explain that not everyone gets off on cases the way he does, that he could do the tests himself and get a good set of results, and he just..._snapped._"

Molly frowns. Sherlock's quick exit is still a mystery to her. "Why?" she asks.

"Because," John says, his smile returning, "he said 'good' results weren't good enough, he needed _perfect_." John places far too much emphasis on that last word for Molly's liking, and her heart skips a beat at the thought of him saying that, of him _actually_ thinking it.

"So," she says, trying to process the idea, "He's upset because I'm better at my _job_ than he is at his _hobby_?"

"Yeah, don't call it a 'hobby' to his _face_. He won't like that," John says. "One hissy fit's enough for one night anyway."

Molly sighs and takes a sip of her coffee. She's not sure whether Sherlock has some precise method for measuring the amount of milk, or whether he weighs the sugar before he stirs it in, but every single time he manages perfection. She looks down at Sherlock's notes once more, her eyes scanning his rushed and messy handwriting.

John peers over her shoulder at the notes, then lets out a small breath and shakes his head. "How can you read that?" he asks. "It just looks like scribbles from here."

"Used to it," Molly says, not looking up. Her brain is focused on the words before her. Sherlock's writing is legible providing she is in the right mindset with which to read it. Sometimes she can look at it and not make out a single word. Other times, like now, she can see it crystal clear. It's like an illusion, one of the ones where if you stare long enough, you'll see something among the shapes.

She can feel it when he comes back into the lab, can feel his eyes on her. She reads to the end of the document, her eyes moving steadily down the page, and it's not until she has finished that she turns around to face him.

"Don't let it go to your head."

Molly smiles. "Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

He's trying to be patient. Really _really _trying. But she's falling asleep at her desk, which is just _asking_ for anomalies. He doesn't need anomalies right now. He needs evidence.

"Wake up," he says sharply, pacing the length of the lab. When he turns and walks back towards her, she regards him with a bleary gaze.

"Can I go home yet?" she mumbles.

"_No_."

She groans, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. She has no staying power, just like John. He's gone back to Baker Street to get some sleep. Sherlock can feel his muscles crying for a good night's sleep but he won't give it to them, not when he's got better things to be doing than sleeping. He strides past Molly again, and when he turns around, he sees that her eyes are closed, and she's snoring gently.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Wake _up!_" he snaps.

Molly wakes with a start, her arms flailing, eyes wide. In the frankly unnecessary commotion, Sherlock can see what's about to happen half a second before it does.

Unfortunately, half a second is not fast enough for him to save his experiment.

There is a crash as the test tubes hit the floor, glass smashing into thousands of tiny sparkling shards. The clear liquid is covering a good portion of the floor around the desk, and Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose, trying, with all his might, not to lose his temper.

Molly stares at him. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "You scared me."

"My fault?" he says icily. "Mine?"

"You didn't need to wake me up like _that_," Molly replies, not meeting his eye. "It was never going to be a calm event, was it?"

"I didn't anticipate that you would be _such_ a disaster area, Molly."

"I think we both need to go home," Molly says, blanking his previous statement. "We both need sleep. You look like a wreck, I feel like one - I shouldn't even _be here_."

"Well you _are here_," Sherlock tells her, "and you'll remain here until we've got a set of results."

Molly shakes her head, and loops her arm through her crutches. "In the morning," she says. "We'll start over."

"We haven't got _time_ to do it in the morning," Sherlock says. "And I don't _need_ to sleep. I'm not as weak as you."

It becomes apparent that he's said something wrong, because Molly gives him a filthy look (as filthy as she can muster, anyway) and slides off of her stool and onto her feet.

"You're not going," he says, moving to block her path.

Molly doesn't even look at him, just turns, and puts her crutches before her. She lifts herself forward, but one of her crutches slips on the test solution. Sherlock lunges forward to catch her, but she's on the floor before he can even get close. She yells upon impact, and Sherlock is sure he hears a distinct _crack, _sending a shiver down his spine.

Tears stream down Molly's face, but she doesn't wail, just breathes heavily, her front teeth buried in her lower lip.

Sherlock's mind empties, all except for one last coherent thought.

This is all his fault.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **And here we have part two! Thanks to all those who reviewed the previous part, hope you like this one. And thanks again to MorbidByDefault for such a lovely prompt. I'm off to watch Deathly Hallows back to back, because that's the sort of badass I am. Enjoy.

* * *

**Until the Ice Melts**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Things are a blur. Eventually, Molly falls into a morphine-enhanced slumber, and when she wakes, she is in her own bed, her duvet wrapped tightly around her. The toes of her right foot are chilly. She opens her eyes and looks down at them. Instead of her funky blue boot, she has now acquired a gleaming white cast.

She wonders how she got home. Her skin prickles uncomfortably as she wonders whether she is alone in the flat, and, if she _is_ alone, how the hell is she supposed to cope? She can envisage Sherlock turning up in two weeks' time, (having only noticed her absence after the bodies really started to pile up) and finding her sprawled on the floor like the accident prone idiot she is.

"Hello?" she calls out, in a soft voice, unsure of whether she wants a reply.

She hears footsteps, and Sherlock appears in the doorway, looking gaunt and tired.

"D'you need anything?" he asks, his gazed focused upon her.

Molly props herself up on her elbows, her body stiff, and limbs weak. "Not really," she says. "Just wondered if anyone was here."

"I'm staying until you're better," Sherlock says, running his hand up the doorframe, his eyes following its path. He's trying to be casual, and Molly almost laughs.

"You don't have to," Molly says. "I can always –"

"What?" Sherlock asks. "Get _who_ to come and look after you?"

Molly's words die in her throat. She hasn't really got anyone anymore. In fact, since her dad died, Sherlock's been the closest thing she has to a...she doesn't even know how to label him. Next of kin? She wonders who's earned that title on her employment contract, then thinks she probably doesn't want to know who she was important to six years ago.

"And…" he continues, "John won't let me back in the flat until you're better."

Molly sighs. Just for a moment, she had foolishly thought that he was here, if not because he cared about her well-being, then at least out of a sense of duty, to right his wrongs. But no, as usual, he's here because he has nowhere else to go. She slumps back down onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. Her leg is starting to ache again, and her toes twitch in response to a particularly sharp pang.

"I stole some morphine for you."

Molly doesn't sit up, doesn't say a word, but the corners of her mouth turn upwards in a small smile. She does not condone theft, not at all, but she thinks it is possibly the nicest thing he, or anyone, for that matter, has ever done for her.

* * *

This is exactly why he steers clear of people, of relationships, of anything requires him _giving_ in any way, shape or form. He just can't handle it. He cannot accept responsibility for another person, even in part. And now, thanks to his own selfishness, he's landed himself with a month of looking after a cripple. Worse than that, is the fact that this cripple is Molly Hooper. The Molly Hooper who put her job _and_ her life on the line to help him fake his death. What does she get for her troubles? A broken leg.

The people that know him the best, John, Mycroft, and curiously, Molly, would not believe that he recognises the feeling of remorse. He knows they all believe him to be unfeeling, and that is true, most of the time. However, as he sits on Molly's sofa, his fingers tapping the arm, he knows what that sick feeling in his stomach is. Every time his brain offers up another flash of a tear stained face, screwed up in pain, the feeling intensifies.

She's probably hungry, he thinks, and so he gets up and heads for the kitchen. He opens the fridge and frowns at its minimal contents. In the bottom drawer there is an onion, a few cloves of garlic, and some carrots which look like they might have been there a while. On the shelves, there is some cheese, a tub of butter, and an out of date lasagne. He shakes his head and closes the door.

"I'm going out!" he calls, "D'you need anything?"

"Food!" Molly calls back.

Sherlock smirks, picks up Molly's keys, and heads for the door.

He doesn't frequent supermarkets very often. He usually leaves that sort of thing to John, or Mrs Hudson. The whole place is far too busy and uninteresting for his liking. The people are dull, their lives dull, the contents of their baskets, dull. There is no entertainment he can squeeze out of a few affairs and a child who has approximately no DNA from the man who thinks he is its father.

Sherlock turns his attention to the products. He doesn't really _do_ cooking, but he's sure if the rest of the world can manage it then so can he. He's not sure _what_ to cook, and so he wanders over to the book aisle, picks a cookbook at random, and flicks through its pages until he sees something that looks like it might be palatable. He scans the recipe, makes a mental note of the ingredients, before placing the book back on the shelf and going off to hunt.

When he arrives back, Molly has managed to get herself to the sofa without mishap, and is sitting, with her leg up, watching a programme with an unwarranted amount of canned laughter. She smiles every now and then at the jokes, and Sherlock's muscles relax, just a little. She can't be in too much pain if she's smiling.

"What did you get?" Molly asks, tipping her head over the back of the sofa and fixing Sherlock with an upside down gaze.

"Food," he says, carrying the bags into the kitchen.

Forty-five minutes later, she has made some room for him on the sofa (though her leg is irritatingly propped up on his lap, for lack of anywhere else to put it) and they are tucking into a seafood risotto. Sherlock watches as Molly' takes her first bite. Her eyes close gently, and he takes that as a good thing.

"You're forgiven," she says, eyes still closed. "You're very _very_ forgiven."

The knot in Sherlock's chest loosens, and he finds it much easier to swallow his food.

* * *

She feels icky. She has stuck it out for as long as possible, with meticulous all over body washes each morning, but she needs more than that. The only trouble is, she needs help.

She tries to build up the courage to ask him, tries to find a string of words that she won't regret saying aloud, but it's difficult. Very difficult. She taps her fingers nervously on the side of her thigh, staring at the television screen, hoping against hope that a bright idea will jump out at her from this episode of Judge Judy. The previous two weren't particularly helpful, but maybe this time. Maybe.

Sherlock huffs loudly, the pages of his newspaper rustling. Molly's fingers still, and instead her good leg starts to jog nervously. They don't even reach the next lot of adverts before Sherlock throws his newspaper down, and turns to her.

"_What_?" he demands. "What's the matter?"

Molly bites her lip.

"Out with it. What do you need?"

"What makes you think I need anything?" Molly asks defensively.

"Because you won't _ask me for it_," he replies.

Molly blinks. "Oh."

"I would have hoped that after everything you've done for me in the past, and considering I'm partially responsible for your injuries, that you would have no qualms about asking me for anything."

"You don't owe me anything," Molly says quietly. "I don't expect anything in return for...what happened."

"I know you don't _expect it_," he says, shifting round so he can see her properly. "But all the same, I owe you my life. So whatever it is, no matter irritating, just ask."

"I need a shower," Molly says in a rush.

"Okay."

"And I'm going to need help."

"I know."

Molly doesn't know what to say. How can she possibly tell him that as much as she fancies him, there is no way in hell that she'd want him to see her naked. At least, not like this.

"We'll need a bin bag," Sherlock says, and he pushes himself up and onto his feet.

Molly frowns, but all is made clear, when, five minutes later, she is sitting on the lid of the toilet, clad in just her bathrobe, and Sherlock is tying the bin bag around her plaster cast. She looks and feels ridiculous, but the bin bag is the least of her worries.

Sherlock takes off his jacket and Molly's eyebrows rise. He undoes the buttons of his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. Molly can't help but feel like a child, about to be bathed by a very practical father. The thought of Sherlock as a father figure somewhat disturbs her, and so Molly focuses on the muscles in his arms as he reaches over to test the temperature of the water.

"Close your eyes," she says, her eyes worried and arms wrapped around herself.

He sighs, but nevertheless closes his eyes. It is a few seconds before she passes him her bathrobe, and then he turns around to face the wall. He can hear the patter of the water against the plastic bin bag around her cast, and assumes that she's not managed to kill herself yet.

"Shampoo?" Her voice is barely audible above the sound of the water, and Sherlock reaches forward to the sink where all of Molly's bottles have been dumped. He passes the shampoo back to her, ignoring the glimpse of her he catches in the mirror, now steamy at the edges. Moments later, the shampoo bottle is nudged gently against his shoulder, and he reaches around to take it from her. He drops it back into the sink and takes a look at his watch, wondering just how long he'll have to stand here for.

"Conditioner?" He obeys, and when she hands it back, he already has the body wash, ready for her.

After far too long, Molly turns the shower off. Sherlock can barely breathe for all the steam, and he wonders just how hot she actually has her showers. He pulls a towel off of the towel rail and turns around, his eyes closed, and holds it open for her.

"Thanks," she says quietly, and after a moment, "Okay, you can open."

He looks down at her, her hair sopping wet, her fair skin glistening with droplets of water. She looks so small, especially without her clothes on. Her large dark eyes are staring up at him, and her mouth forces an awkward smile. He moves aside, and she moves past him with a lopsided gait, her cast and its bin bag rustling as she walks.

Sherlock returns to the lounge and takes a seat on the sofa. He runs a hand through his hair, and considers his situation. He has never taken care of anybody before. Not even a cup of tea when John's been struck down by 'man flu'. And yet, here he is, being a shampoo caddy for the strange (yet endearing) pathologist whom he has known for years.

Yes, there is an aspect of guilt, which is strange enough in itself. He can accept when something is his fault but never has it concerned him before. It's not the sort of thing he bothers himself with. While it is true that John had to practically force him into Molly's flat, Sherlock's not sure that he'd be willing to leave before her cast comes off, even if John _does_ return his key for 221B to him.

He has a sense of duty, which he has never had before, and all of these new things are worrying him. He dreads to think that he might be becoming sentimental, and puts it all down to the fact that, after his time spent hiding out at Molly's flat, he has become accustomed to her in the way that he has to John.

The one thing that he can't shake off, however, is that she can see right through him. She can see through him in a way that John can't, in a way that he's _glad_ that John can't. He is certain that he has never let anybody this close before. And he doubts he will do again.

* * *

She is back at work, though still on crutches, but Sherlock, bizarrely, is still being helpful. She had thought that after a few days, perhaps a week, he would grow bored; John would relent because he would have shown at least some remorse, and that would have been more that John could have reasonably expected.

But no. here he is, waiting dutifully at the printer for her test results to print out.

The door opens and in walks Greg, his face drawn, dark circles under his eyes. The top button of his shirt is undone, his tie loose, and his stubble is longer than Molly has ever seen it. He looks a mess.

"Thought I'd find you here." He's talking to Sherlock, and Molly watches as the latter checks the order of the papers in his hand and walks back towards her bench.

"Congratulations. You've found me," Sherlock says.

"You haven't been answering your phone."

"Correct." Sherlock places the results in front of Molly but she doesn't look at them. She's far too interested in this exchange to be distracted by tox screens. She hadn't known Greg had been trying to get in touch with Sherlock, and it must have been for some time, because by the look of him, and judging by the burger sauce stain on his shirt, Greg hasn't been home for at least two days.

"I need you," Greg says.

"Busy," Sherlock says, and he glances down at the papers in front of Molly. "Very high levels of alcohol."

Molly ignores him. "What's up?" she asks Greg.

"That little girl on the news," he says. "She's my case."

Molly turns to stare at Sherlock in disbelief. "How long has he been trying to get in touch with you?"

"Fourteen and a half hours," Sherlock replies. "Give or take a few minutes."

She cannot believe what she's hearing. There is a missing six year old on the front of every newspaper, her parents are making distraught appeals in press conferences, and here Sherlock is looking at _tox screens_. She knows he doesn't do empathy, knows that he cannot possibly understand what the parents are going through, what the _little girl_ is going through, but this is ridiculous.

"Big case like that," she says, "Thought it'd be right up your street."

"It's not my problem."

Molly closes her eyes and puts her head in her hands. She wonders, more often than she should, why the hell she loves him.

"Sherlock, it's a _missing child_, for God's _sake_ -" Greg is starting to lose his patience. That's the difference between the two of them. Greg is a wreck because he cares, while Sherlock is impeccable in his neatly pressed shirt and trousers. He's clean shaven, his hair washed and sitting _just right_.

It's awful.

"Go," Molly says. "_Please_."

"But you need me."

"I'll manage just _fine_," she replies. She can't believe what she's hearing. Her needing someone to carry her coffee while she muddles her way back from the canteen is _nothing_ compared to the needs of a missing six year old, and yet he can't seem to differentiate between the two.

"Fine," Sherlock says, huffing slightly. He grabs his jacket and pulls it on, then turns to Greg. "But we have to be finished by six, Lestrade."

"If you solve it by six," Greg replies.

"Of course I'll solve it by six," Sherlock retorts. "But I'm back here by six. I can't expect Molly to get home on her own with her leg in that thing."

Molly looks at Greg, their eyes meeting in shared disbelief as Sherlock slips his phone into his pocket and straightens the lapels of his jacket.

"Lead on, Inspector."

Greg blinks, gathers himself, nods at Molly, and departs.

While Molly's stomach twists uncomfortably with the knowledge of the case and its importance, there is a little light in her heart that just manages to whisper through the darkness of it all. No matter how hard she tries to put it out, to ignore it, to remind herself that there are far more important things happening right now, she cannot quite extinguish the knowledge that for fourteen and a half hours, she was more important to Sherlock Holmes than one of his cases.

* * *

When the day finally arrives, Sherlock rolls over to look at Molly, who is still sound asleep. She takes up such a small amount of space, even in her own bed, and Sherlock wonders if it's how she always sleeps, or, if he were not here, whether she would be spread out across the mattress taking up as much room as possible.

He shakes her shoulder gently and her eyelids flutter open. She grimaces at the stream of light that has broken through the gap in the curtains and throws her arm over her eyes.

"We have to leave in an hour," he says, his voice breaking the silence.

She groans and pulls the duvet up higher. She's not good at mornings, he has discovered. He had always expected the opposite of someone so terminally _chirpy_, but he now knows it's all just the coffee talking.

He sits up, throws the covers off of himself and swings his legs out of the side of the bed. He swallows down a yawn, determined not to let his body display any signs of tiredness, and gets up, grabbing his dressing gown as he heads towards the lounge.

"I'll put the kettle on," he says.

Molly murmurs something indistinct, and he shakes his head before he goes to fix some coffee.

When they arrive at the hospital, Sherlock thinks vaguely that this will be the last time he has to help her out of a taxi, that he won't ever have to hear the _thunk click _of her crutches ever again as he walks alongside her. He shrugs off the thought and waits as patiently as he can for her to navigate up the steps of the Bart's entrance.

She goes in with the nurse on her own, and he likes that. The people before her have gone in with anxious expressions (they've heard about the saw, he assumes) and drag in their chaperones with them. Molly, on the other hand, tells him she'll see him in a minute, and disappears.

He gets bored very quickly, and considers making a trip to the morgue to see if there's anything interesting in, but then realises that if Molly's not working, he won't be allowed through the door.

After what feels like an age, Molly reappears, a broad smile on her face. She is walking awkwardly, but she's out of practice so that's to be expected. Sherlock gets up, and they walk towards the lifts, more slowly than even when she was on crutches. Her leg is still delicate, except now it's delicate and unprotected. It's also still sore, he can tell from the way she bites her lip occasionally.

He hails a taxi when they reach the street, and opens the door for her, watching her carefully as she climbs in and takes her seat. Sherlock follows swiftly and relays Molly's address to the driver. Molly smiles, and they ride back to her place in silence.

They soon arrive, and Sherlock thrusts some money at the driver and climbs out of the cab. When Molly is out too, he pushes the door shut and walks towards the entrance of Molly's apartment block. It is a few seconds before he realises that she is not walking with him.

"What?" he asks.

Molly shrugs. "I just thought you'd be..." she looks around, mulling over her words, "...going back to Baker Street."

His face goes cold, and it feels as though something heavy has dropped in his stomach.

"Not that I'm trying to get rid of you!" she says in a rush, "Not at all! But I just thought...well I thought John would probably let you back in now."

He doesn't tell her that John had returned his key to him after his first week away from 221B. He's not sure she'd understand. He doesn't understand it himself.

"Sorry," he says, "Force of habit."

He starts to walk towards the main road. He doesn't often feel like an idiot, but when he does, nine times out of ten it's Molly Hooper who's to blame.

He doesn't like it.

"Sherlock!"

He turns at the sound of her voice, and she's still standing in the same spot. She chews her lip, just for a second, nervous, apparently, and then words spill from her mouth.

"Wecanhaveacoffeeifyoulike?"

He's grown used to her garbled babbling, and so he doesn't need her to repeat. Curiously, when she's like this, she speaks at the same speed at which his brain processes words. It's quite nice to not have to wait around for the ends of sentences.

Sherlock doesn't answer her question, but walks back to her, and her smile, which grows as he approaches.

He's not ready to go home. Not yet.

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
